


Subdivided and Synthetic

by silvensei



Series: In This Mad Machinery [2]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: (but like as the B-plot), Bodyswap, Case Fic, Comedy, Gen, Or: Gavin Reed Gets His Comeuppance, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Sequel, having one vulgar cop was containable enough but two?, it's like they need to out-cuss each other, probably not as existential as the last one, time to mess with your coworkers, you know what I'mma bump this up to M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2020-03-19 23:50:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18980887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silvensei/pseuds/silvensei
Summary: "C'mon, think about it: The android racist is stuck as an android for a while, I can threaten to fuck up his life, and you can just chill as me or whatever. Something to spice up the week!”If Hank had proposed this idea a few months ago, Connor would’ve been against it. Ripping an individual from their corporeal form for petty revenge while toeing legal lines was not worth it when subjected to logic. However, if being deviant and occasionally human had taught him anything, it’s that emotions often don’t follow logic.And Detective Gavin Reed was, in technical terms, a dick.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Not to meme here, but aw shit, here we go again
> 
> I would recommend reading the first one first, the fake sci-fi science will make more sense that way. Plus that one's good, too, nudge nudge wink wink

“I don’t give a _rat’s_ _ass_ what the district attorney has to say, you son of a bitch, you’re under DPD jurisdiction and five feet from my fucking _fist_ breaking your _goddamn_ —!”

_(Audio adjusted: 50%)_

“You’d think the precinct didn’t have sound-proof interrogation rooms,” Connor commented. He saved and submitted the last form he had to fill out before shutting down his computer, interlacing his fingers to rest in his lap and swiveling in his chair to face Hank. His partner gave him an expectant look. _(Awaiting response.)_ “If you said something just now, I have my hearing turned down.”

“You lucky duck.” Hank was audible but quiet; he ran his lip-reading program as a fallback. “You think you’re tired of Gavin’s bitching already? You’ve been here like eight months. I’ve had to work with him for years.”

“My condolences.”

“Hey, that was a good one!”

“Thank you, Lieutenant. But why exactly is Detective Reed threatening a man in the holding cells and not an interrogation room?”

“Fuck if I know.” Hank looked behind him in the direction of the ruckus. “He might be a hotheaded bastard, but he usually follows protocol. He’s probably just peeved and acting out because it’s kinda dead right now.”

Connor hummed, scanning the room. Only half the desks had been occupied today, even fewer now as people began to go home for the evening. He had noticed their ever-dwindling numbers over the last couple of days. “Why is that?” he asked.

“Just what ends up happening.” Hank crossed his arms and leaned back. He grimaced at something—Connor assumed some profanity he couldn’t hear—before saying, “The Fourth of July is next week, which is always a fun time for the fuzz, y’know? Fireworks, fire hazards, fire, excessive alcohol, drugs, lost dogs, general noise, general fire. Because of that, because I guess people are trying to save their crime for the holiday, the week before is usually laid back, as proven by this boring Wednesday. Lotta people take it off for a little summer vacation.”

“Ah. You didn’t want to take some time off?”

Hank shrugged, about to answer before pausing to roll his eyes. He heaved a sigh and slowly swiveled around, out of sight for lip reading. Following his line of sight, Connor spotted Reed reentering the bullpen, fists compressing carbon into diamonds by his sides. _(Audio adjusted: 100%)_

“‘Having fun,’ he says,” Reed sneered, answering Hank’s remark. “Like you guys were having a fucking bonanza in here. The latest shithead we’ve dug up was just pissing me off, ‘s all.”

“Was it an interrogation?” asked Hank innocently.

Reed scoffed. “Why does that—”

“All DPD interrogations,” Connor interrupted, pulling up the police handbook for reference, “must be scheduled in advance, approved in writing, and conducted, witnessed, and recorded in an interrogation room.”

“Thank you, Connor.” Hank nodded. “So not an interrogation. Did he assault an officer?”

“With the amount of benzodiazepines last recorded in his system, Lieutenant, I highly doubt that.”

“And he’s restrained anyway.”

“Correct.”

“So sounds like a perfectly contained situation.” Hank ended it there with a smug smile.

Reed looked between them, brow twitching, fuming renewed with fresh fuel. “That fucking junkie,” he hissed, “has given us all enough shit just bringing him in today and just won’t _shut up_ , and with nothing else to do in this wasteland of an office, I figured I’d just put him in his place to get this done with sooner.”

“Mm-hm.”

Reed rounded on Connor, jabbing the air between them with a finger. “And I don’t need _you_ spouting rules and regulations, Tin Man. _I_ actually had to pass a test to get my job.” Then he continued his storming back to his desk, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

Connor stared after him, blinking. Returned to full strength, his audio processors picked up the slowing whir of Hank’s computer and the rolling of his chair as he stood. “Welp,” he announced. “Time to bounce.” He retrieved his keys from his pocket and strolled to the door, not checking if the android was following in favor of making a hasty retreat. Connor followed.

While walking across the parking lot, he was finally able to find something to say. “Does he realize that androids are made of comparatively very little tin?”

“Really? Isn’t tin good for like, wires n’ shit?”

“Not as the main component in an alloy.” He opened the car door, adding when they both climbed in, “Thus the ‘comparatively’ part.”

“Alright, alright, but it’s mostly just an expression. A reference.”

“Of course.” Keying up the ignition, Hank backed out of the parking lot and began the commute home. Connor clicked his seatbelt into place. (“It looks better for the cops,” Hank had said. “Plus you’re expensive.”) “The baseline pop cultural knowledge one must have in order to follow everyday conversation is intimidating,” he mused.

“You’ll pick it up, it just happens. But anyway. Gavin? What a cunt.”

Connor raised an eyebrow. That was vulgar even by Hank’s standards.

“He’s been like this forever,” he continued. “I was hoping he’d grow out of it over the last decade or whatever, but nope. The android racism and subsequent slight dulling of the android racism has been the only change, and I can’t really say that’s been a good change. He’s self-centered, brash, frustrating, violent, and just a damn prick in general.”

Connor noted that Hank himself had been called most of those before, but he surmised now wouldn’t be the time to bring up that comparison.

“But if he were a normal jerk, I’d grit my teeth and get over it, fuck me and my shitty luck, I guess, but it’s the fact that he’s been the _same_ jerk for eleven years that’s the icing on the cake.” They stopped at a red light. Hank turned his way, bouncing his hand at Connor to emphasize, “ _E-le-ven._ That’s a long fucking time to be putting up with this bullshit, Connor!”

The light changed. “Couldn’t you report him?” he asked.

“Oh, sure, sure, I’m sure plenty have, but he _does_ know the guidebook, and having a shitty personality isn’t technically against the rules. Just wish I could just knock his lights out one of these days, but that _is_ against the rules. That’s just stooping to his level, which I wouldn’t give a shit about if it were anyone else, but I don’t wanna risk giving him that satisfaction.” Hank drummed his hands against the steering wheel and pursed his lips. “No, can’t just deck him.”

“There’s psychological torment,” Connor offered. _(CAUTION: Risk violation of Geneva Convention and—)_ “Detective Reed gets particularly annoyed when his jokes and sarcasm are treated seriously without acknowledgement.”

Hank narrowed his eyes, nodding. “Good, good, you keep that up. Words and subtlety and the long game like that aren’t _my_ strong suit, though. I’m more of a ‘dislocate his jaw’ kind of guy, but that’s actually definitely assault of both an officer and a coworker.”

“I’d think so, yes.”

The car was quiet, save for a saxophone on the radio. Connor expected that to be the end of another Anderson Rant and began cataloguing what was left in the refrigerator to determine whether he should set grocery shopping to a higher priority. Whenever he assumed the end of a conversation, though, that was usually when a new idea appeared straight out of left field, so it didn’t surprise him when Hank said, “But if I deck myself, that’s just masochism, which is _not_ illegal.”

He paused his estimation of broccoli freshness. “That is indeed a true statement, but how would that solve anything?”

He received a look. It was a look he recognized: subtle smirk, sharp eyes, somewhat smug. It was an expression he saw when Hank had the beginnings of a plan formulated and was waiting to see if he could reach the same conclusions. Connor had seen it before when Hank offered to distract Agent Perkins to allow him to sneak into the evidence room. Also when Hank schemed up pseudocode for an algorithm he wanted Connor to run to give him an edge for the new betting season. Most recently, he remembered it from Hank’s suggestion to continue swapping bodies after the initial experimental run back in May.

Masochism was harming one’s own body. It didn’t necessarily have to be oneself anymore.

“But Reed is human,” Connor pointed out. “Our method of switching bodies—and currently the only known method of switching bodies, mind you—relies on transference via the CyberLife network, meaning at least one of the parties needs to be connected to the network, i.e. an android.”

“You’re connected to the network. C’mon, don’t you wanna fuck his shit up?”

Connor found his head shaking back and forth. “I wouldn’t mind seeing him get his comeuppance, but I think that would be taking it a bit far.”

“I think it would be just far enough. Give him an existential broken nose. Maybe hold his career hostage.” Hank whacked the back of his hand a couple times against Connor’s shoulder. “Hey, if you don’t wanna be involved, that’s fine, but since I’ve got a decade of beef to work out, what if I borrowed your network connection to hijack him myself?”

“My network connection? It’s not a physical, removable, loanable thing—”

“No no, like—” Gripping the wheel with his left hand, he shifted to half-turn toward the passenger side. “Can we stack these? Like, we swap first, then since I’d have the tech, I swap again with Gavin. The fuckin’ android racist is stuck as an android for a while, I can threaten to fuck up his life, and you can just chill as me or whatever. Something to spice up the dull week!”

“I….” Connor hesitated, the scenario Hank proposed running through statistical analysis. “It would be some kind of spice, at the very least.”

“But think about it! With the weak constitution that dick has, ruining his sense of self would be easy and perfect. And there probably technically aren’t any laws against bodysnatching yet.”

_(Analysis complete.)_

Connor blinked. “It looks like it would be possible, but I would have to modify the existing nanite formula. Using two solutions in two separate swaps would end with everyone being displaced, but if the swaps are nested, it could work. The pivotal factor would be if I can modify either the strength or the concentration of the formula to adjust its duration.”

The smirk curled under Hank’s mustache. “So is that a go?” he asked.

“It’ll take me a few hours to test the modifications. It might not even work.”

“Yeah, yeah, but is this a plan we can get behind?”

Connor turned his attention to his hands, resting in his lap. Since the original crisis of self he had from their first swap over a month prior, they had switched places four more times: the following weekend to rerecord the experience for CyberLife; the Sunday after when Hank was bored and wanted to go sprint around the city because he had squandered his youth; a Thursday where they had to double-check an android-related FBI crime scene and neither of them really wanted to deal with that without something else to keep them entertained; and last Monday when Connor was interested in another shot at dreaming and Hank wanted to stay up to finish a book. Each time was different with its own revelations about human existence, and while he wouldn’t say he was adjusting to it, it was gradually becoming more manageable.

If Hank had proposed this idea a few months ago, he would’ve been against it. Ripping an individual from their corporeal form for petty revenge while toeing legal lines was not worth it when subjected to logic. However, if being deviant and occasionally human had taught him anything, it’s that emotions often don’t follow logic.

And Detective Gavin Reed was, in technical terms, a dick.

“I can give it a shot,” Connor conceded. “It can be an experiment of our own. So long as you’re sure about it, because I’m going to hold you liable.”

Hank grew a devious smile. “Fair. Let’s fuck his shit up.”

* * *

It was a good thing groceries didn’t need to be prioritized that evening. Hank mixed up a simple sauce with some pasta and settled in to alternate between sport networks. Except for an occasional check-in on his progress, Connor was left to his own devices.

He ran four different predictive tests, changing the concentration of the solution, the tempering and material of the nanites, and theoretical signal strength. Using the results in conjunction to develop a hypothesis, he mixed ten modified solutions and left them in a controlled setting, tracking their signal strength over a few hours. One outperformed the rest; he mixed three more identical solutions, testing for reproducibility.

It was soon after he set up this last test that Hank stood up and stretched, reaching an arm to the ceiling with a grunt of effort. “Time for bed,” he announced. “Think it’s going alright?”

“I might have a viable formula. I’m running it through quality assurance right now.”

Hank smirked. “Awesome. It’ll be good for tomorrow?”

“In theory.” Connor still wasn’t completely sold on the plan, something nagging uncomfortably at his conscience whenever he thought it over. “Are we really jumping into this so soon?”

“I mean, I’d rather not jump the shark here when we have actual work to do, and this week is the quiet week, so it’s either tomorrow or Friday, so….” He shrugged. “Why not tomorrow?”

Connor frowned. The Detroit Police Department handbook reappeared on his HUD, running a search for any mention of body snatching and the psychological effects thereof. “I think I’m just concerned about unforeseen repercussions, because it is highly unlikely there will not be consequences, and the possibility that they will be severe—”

“You wanna mess with Gavin or not?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then that’s what we’re gonna do.” His hand dropped to Connor’s shoulder. “And if something does come up,” he assured, “I’ll handle it.”

He stared at him. _(Search complete – 1 result: p58 – Grave Robbing: “…and BODY SNATCHING, a rarity today, is treated on a case-by-case…”)_ “If you’re sure.”

“If _you’re_ sure.” Hank gave his shoulder a few pats. “See you in the morning.”

“Good night.”

With Hank gone, Sumo heaved himself up from his bed and padded over. He stopped for a moment in front of Connor to receive some scratches before jumping up on the empty couch. Connor couldn’t help but smile, watching Sumo circle once before flopping across the cushions.

Could he switch bodies with Sumo? Immediately, he discarded the thought, shaking his head, no, that’s not a good idea. Human physiology barely could handle running a temporary network connection; he couldn’t imagine having to try to modify it to be canine-compatible. And would Sumo be able to comprehend android existence? No, that seemed like a cruel idea, a foolish endeavor indeed.

He was surprised at how easily the idea had occurred to him. Two months ago, he was fully dedicated to the idea that he was an RK800 android and nothing more. Now, jumping from chassis to body with some semblance of frequency, he wasn’t sure what he was. It was a question that haunted and frightened him if he dwelled too much on it. Hank’s advice to “just go with the flow” was the lifeline keeping him sane; past the existential dread, he’d even found some enjoyment.

Taking all that into account, this was exactly the kind of psychological torment he would like to put Reed through.

His program ran the same low warning that had been on loop since that evening, repeatedly reminding him that deliberately causing harm and/or putting humans in states of duress was against CyberLife code of conduct. But since when did he listen to his programming anymore.

Connor leaned back and checked the current signal strength of his sample solutions. Just go with the flow….

* * *

Within three and a half hours, he had enough data to safely predict the duration of the modified nanites and conclude that it was adequate for the desired nested transfers.

Within three hours and thirty-two minutes, he had outlined a plan to review with Hank in the morning, drafted a program to override the nagging alert from the code of conduct’s Asimov clause, and connected to the house’s induction charger, ambient input dulling as he entered standby for the night.

* * *

“Just under nine hours?” Hank asked as he brushed the bandage onto his arm. A faint pinprick of color blossomed under the beige.

“Eight hours, forty-eight minutes.” Connor wiped his hands on a dish towel, to give them something to do more so than to clean them; the syringe had already been retracted from his finger, sterilized, and discarded. “Approximation subject to a nine percent margin of error, varying by up to fifty-eight minutes.”

“I’ll trust that that’s alright.” He hit his fist into his palm a couple times before collecting his keys and wrapping up his morning routine. He smirked and added, “I can just imagine the look on that dick’s face—on your face. It’s gonna be great.”

That’s one way to put it. Connor replaced the towel on the counter and put on his jacket. “It’ll probably be more disconcerting to me.”

“ _Great_ , I say.”

Hank slung a light coat over his arm, gave Sumo a goodbye pat, and went out to the car. _9:12 AM,_ Connor noted as he followed. Hank didn’t usually leave that early of his own volition _(Cause: ANTICIPATION)_.

The drive seemed to speed by. Connor had already proposed his plan of action during breakfast, which Hank had agreed to with only slight revisions, so the commute was mostly quiet save for the radio and occasional small talk. It wasn’t until they parked in their usual spot at the precinct that Hank asked, “So how’s that map looking?”

Connor set his shoulders. The map of androids connected to the CyberLife network unfurled over his vision, centering on a dark blue dot half-overlapping a white. “All connected.”

“Alrighty. Beam me up.”

He almost smiled at that. “I know that technically describes what happens, but I’d still rather you not say that.” Not allowing Hank to get the last laugh, Connor accessed the white dot through the network and initiated a system transfer.

For the sixth time now, his sensors shut off, leaving him blind and deaf for a mere moment as processes saved and quit, and after he felt that last relay click—his lungs filled with air—he gasped lightly—even though he fully knew what to expect now, breathing always caught him by surprise.

Connor squinted against the bright light. It took longer for human pupils to contract, leaving him at the whims of imperfect ocular biology. Colors didn’t look as saturated or as clear as he knew they could be. His hands were still curled around the steering wheel—his ears were a bit cooler than the rest of him—Hank’s hair must still be a bit damp from his morning shower—maybe Hank should consider cutting his hair to a more reasonable length—

He shook his head once, throwing the disorderly jumble of thoughts into line before looking over to the passenger seat. Now that all the necessary compatibility software had been downloaded, it didn’t take several minutes for Hank to come to his senses like before, but he always seemed to come to after Connor. He watched the RK800’s LED cycle for a second before resuming nominal status, the half-lidded eyes blinking to alertness. “Fuck yeah, let’s go.”

Connor unclicked his seatbelt and grabbed Hank’s coat from the back seat. “Reminder that I don’t swear as liberally as you, if we are going to pretend to be each other.”

Hank grinned and shot back, “Well, then reminder that I make fuckin’ sailors weep, so step your game up, boy.”

His stomach twisted for a second at this perversion of his image; he brushed it off and got out of the car. “The vial,” he said, pausing until he saw Hank’s head pop over the car, “is in my inside left pocket.”

Hank’s hand patted his side until it found the form in his jacket and gave Connor a thumbs up.

“Good.” After locking the car, Connor rested his forearms on the roof and leaned forward. “And remember,” he said, dropping his voice, “to ensure the nanites don’t denature from the heat, I’ve increased both their buoyancy and viscosity slightly, but this will create a sheen on the coffee’s surface, so be sure to get a travel lid, and also—”

“Relax, Connor, I know.” Hank, grin still in place, adjusted his tie like Connor did every morning. “You forget that I’ve spiked a few drinks in my time.”

“Wh— Have you?”

Hank looked at him a moment longer before passing a hand over his face, leaving his expression placid and his smile gone. He nudged his tie again and gestured behind him with a tip of his head. “Come on, Lieutenant,” he said before walking off toward the station. Connor took a deep breath, hoping his wouldn’t regret this, and followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was working on this when I realized, "Hey, I could just post whatever I want, whenever I want, why wait until it's all done, something's better than nothing," and also this first chapter has been open on my computer for weeks, so - and I reiterate - _here we go again_
> 
> Also also I think writing Hank is the sole reason I've started swearing more, so let it be known that I fuckin' _suffer_ for my craft


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note bumping up the rating on this fic to M because boy, there's already more swearing in these two chapters than in the entirety of the last one, and having these two vulgar sons of bitches in dialogue is gonna just make that skyrocket, plus we haven't even gotten to the actual case fic part yet

Just as Hank had predicted, the precinct was much less populated than usual. Connor absently went through Hank’s email to try to look busy, and based on a brief survey of the room, the other bleary-eyed officers were doing the same. Hank sat at Connor’s terminal, unable to log on; even though he had Connor’s body, he didn’t have his credentials to interface with the system, and Connor never set a password. Instead, he scrolled through the news on a tablet. His android face might’ve looked impassive, but the light bouncing of his leg and steadily drooping posture said otherwise. Connor hoped no one would notice this odd behavior for the department’s stoic android.

It seemed to take forever for Reed to arrive. In actuality, when Reed sauntered in barely a step above a vegetative state, the desktop clock said 10:07 AM, some twenty minutes after he and Hank had arrived.

He looked over at his partner. Hank met his gaze and straightened up. “Would you care for a coffee, Lieutenant?”

“Why not.”

Hank winked and left for the kitchen.

Taking a breath, nerves kicking up again after the brief calm, Connor skimmed through Hank’s email another time: two case summaries, an autopsy report, some coupons and other office benefits, and a newsletter on events and happenings in Detroit for the upcoming holiday. Nothing new, and nothing that would be an apt distraction.

The clock ticked to 10:08 AM.

What a shame humans didn’t have a standby mode.

A cup appeared in his vision. Connor blinked and thanked him as he took it, the cup warm underha— hot under— _burning—_ he yanked his hand back. “ _Shit!_ ”

Hank’s lips quirked as he couldn’t completely contain a grin. He set the cup down and said, “Might I remind you, Lieutenant, that while I can hold a paper coffee cup safely, human skin is much more sensitive to heat.”

He shook his hand out. It only helped emotionally. “I would’ve never guessed.”

He snickered before wiping the expression and navigating through the desks across the bullpen. Reed didn’t notice his approach until Hank said, “Good morning, Detective Reed.”

He raised an eyebrow, glancing at who he thought was Connor. “Do you need something?”

“You looked like you could use a coffee.”

“The fuck did that come from?”

"The kitchen."

His eyes narrowed.

“Just trying to be considerate.” He paused. “I would also like to apologize for yesterday.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“I shit you not.” Connor was impressed with Hank’s ability to keep a straight face throughout this exchange. “I’m sorry if I came off as critical of your qualifications. That was not my intention.”

Reed scoffed. “What kind of apology is that?”

Connor hid his own cup behind his monitor and called, “Hey, Connor, if he doesn’t want it, I’ll take it. Don’t want to waste a perfectly good drink.”

“You wish,” Reed shot back, snatching the cup from Hank and taking a defiant swig. He waved Hank off with his free hand, muttering, “Asked for this like a year ago,” as he turned back to his computer. He took another drink as Hank walked back to his desk and held out a hand for a high-five as he passed; Connor didn’t leave him hanging.

A new email pinged into Hank’s inbox. Connor considered it, then read the subject again. He hesitated a moment before opening the email:

> _To: Hank Anderson (handerson@detroitmi.gov)_
> 
> _From: Samira Rosen (sam.rosen@cyberlife.org)_
> 
> _Date: Thursday, June 30, 10:14 AM_
> 
> _Subject: Appointment Request_
> 
> _Good morning, Connor,_
> 
> _No, I didn’t send this to the wrong address. I noticed Lt. Anderson’s connection to the network and subsequent transfer this morning and figured that since it’s during normal working hours anyway, now would be a good time to make a request._
> 
> _I never got the chance to directly thank you for your assistance in our test and for returning your memory data—or the RK800’s memory data. We have analyzed the file and are overjoyed and fascinated by the results._
> 
> _As a next step, I would like to meet with you in person to discuss the experience, preferably while displaced. If you’d be up for it, I would also be incredibly interested in recording some brain activity to see if and how it’s altered from its normal state._
> 
> _I will be available any time before 5:15 today. I’ve added you (i.e. Lt. Anderson) to the visitors list, so if you can make time today, you can come by whenever. The actual Lt. Anderson may also come; however, I believe it would be much too tough to discuss both sides in a single day. I would rather schedule a similar meeting with him at a later date._
> 
> _I’m looking forward to meeting you in person, Connor._
> 
> _Regards,_
> 
> _Dr. Samira Rosen_

“Hey, Lieu— look at this,” he said, not taking his eyes off the screen.

“Hm?” Hank went around to stand behind his chair. Connor was about to tell him nesting his hands in his coat pockets like that was un-Connor-like, but he was distracted by noticing Hank’s irises rotate as his eyes focused. Connor quickly looked away. Of course they rotate, to adjust pupil aperture, it’s how lenses focus, whether they be in the human eye, a camera, or something in between. Why did he find that unsettling?

He rubbed an eye with the back of his hand while Hank read the email. Unfortunately, Hank now read like an android and was done in a fraction of the time it took Connor. “Well, we kinda knew CyberLife would get in contact again,” he said with a shrug. “Seems reasonable enough to me. Hey, if you go around lunchtime, maybe CyberLife’ll pay for lunch.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad.” He leaned back in his chair, his spine relaxing into it. “Should I really go by myself, though?”

“Sure, why not? If it turns nefarious, what could they possibly do to you? They only deal with androids, of which you’re not at the moment. I’d probably be more at risk going like this.”

Connor hummed in acquiescence. “So should I just…go now, or…?”

“Check with Jeffrey first. I doubt he’ll have anything for us today but let him know. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to know that you’re you today.” Hank smirked, the action conveying the concept of sarcasm better than the RK800’s voice could. When Connor shifted to stand, he added, “And don’t leave right after telling him! Gotta stick around for the main event.” He gestured behind him with his eyes, to where Reed was downing the last of his coffee.

Connor allowed a smile at that. “But of course.” He stood up, stretching out his back and appreciating how he was a little taller than Hank now before heading to Fowler’s office.

The man himself was playing Minesweeper on his computer and was not to be attempting to be subtle about it. He looked up more quickly than usual and smiled as Connor closed the door. “The most exciting day of your life, I’m sure?” he joked.

“That’s one way to put it, sir.”

“‘Sir’? Well, nice to finally see some— Oh.” The smile didn’t drop completely, but his head did, falling into his palm. “Christ. Alright, then. I guess that’s one way to stave off boredom. Hi, Connor.”

“Good morning, Captain.”

“What’s up? Hank told you pre-Fourth week is dead, and he wanted to play around as Robocop?”

“Something like that.” He was about to clasp his hands behind his back before remembering the glass walls of Fowler’s office and putting them in his pockets instead. “Actually, a researcher at CyberLife asked me to meet with her to go over the specifics and implications of body swapping. I was wondering if I could take some to all of today off to go to the CyberLife labs for this appointment.”

“You you or Hank you?”

“Me.” Connor paused. “The me that’s right here.”

Fowler sighed and waved him off. “Yeah, yeah, go off in the name of science. Then at least they can be more productive than us.”

“Thank you, sir. And don’t worry,” he added as he opened the door, “this’ll be back to normal tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow’ll probably be just as dead, as a warning.”

Hank was sitting on top of the desk when he returned. “So that android network map? It’s the gray grid with a bunch of green and blue dots on it, yeah?” His gaze was somewhat distant, not focused on Connor when he sat back down in the computer chair.

“Yes, that’s it.” Perhaps Hank was feeling self-conscious about his height, thus the extra desk elevation. “You’re the white dot at the center. Reed will also be represented by a white dot.”

“I can see that. Looks like he’s already on here. That seemed fast.”

“Huh. Perhaps it’s because Reed has less body mass than you, thus it was able to work through his system faster.”

He blinked away the map in time to shoot him a look. “…Perhaps. Anyway.” He hopped down, holding up a random manila folder from the pile. “Showtime?”

Connor regretted his decision to sit down, as having to stand up so soon did not sound pleasant on his current knees. His assumption was correct. He rolled his shoulders before putting his hands back in his pockets. “Showtime.”

Tapping the folder against his other hand twice, Hank spun on his heel and strode over to Reed’s desk with Connor in tow, following at a slower, more relaxed pace. “Detective Reed,” Hank announced, presenting the folder, “could you come review this case in Conference Room 2 with us, please? We could use a third opinion.”

Reed already looked suspicious. “How the hell did you find work today of all days?”

“We didn’t; there wasn’t much to do, so we went through some cold cases for something to do.”

“How proactive of you.” The chair swiveled to fully face them. “And why not just talk right here?”

“Jeez, Gavin,” Connor said, joining in as backup, “it’s just something to do in this boring-ass office.”

Reed shot him an unimpressed look. It was his normal unimpressed look, though. Hank also shot him an okay sign behind Reed’s back before walking off to the conference room. Connor followed, looking back with a “Coming?” before Reed sighed and pushed himself up to join them.

“So what’s this fuckin’ brainteaser of a case you’ve dug up?” he asked as Connor closed the door behind them.

Hank set the folder on the table and stood in front of the projector screen. “It was filed as a mugging that escalated into an accidental death, but the autopsy doesn’t match up. I theorized that the victim was killed while sitting down, but Lieutenant Anderson doesn’t believe that someone would be mugged while seated.”

Connor shrugged like they had practiced. “And if someone was sitting, how does it ‘accidentally’ escalate?”

Reed looked between them for a moment before muttering, “That is a good question….”

Pulling out a chair from the table, Hank asked, “May we run through a demonstration?”

“Whatever.” He sat down, drumming his hands on the armrests. “Victim was sitting, doing something, probably minding their own business, yeah?”

“Correct.” The android walked around to face him, standing tall, grin steadily growing, LED flickering with activity. “The victim was supposedly minding his own business at that particular moment, but everyone knew he was usually a real dick, so he probably got on some people’s nerves. Maybe one such guy was the assailant, who seemed to walk right up to the unsuspecting victim, lean down, and say:” Hank tapped his temple. “Gotcha, bitch.”

Reed started. “What the fuck do you think—”

And silence.

Connor watched in fascination. Hank—or the RK800 chassis itself—being built for safe shutdowns, had locked its joints and frozen in place, jacket swaying only slightly from momentum. His victorious grin was still mostly evident on his face, some of the effect lost due to the dim eyes. Reed was slumped to the side unceremoniously, unconscious. Connor stepped closer, looking between them for the first sign of life. He didn’t realize he was holding his breath until his chest started to clench, and the acknowledgement of his anxiety only made his stomach turn.

After a moment or second or minute (damn not having an internal clock), he caught a twitch in Reed’s hand. Leaning to the other side, the figure groaned and rubbed his neck. “Someone needs to see a chiropractor,” he grumbled. His eyes snapped open to look at his hand, a familiar grin sliding into place. “Well, shit,” he declared, glancing up at the RK800 before finding Connor to his right. “He doesn’t even have to try to sound like a douche. It’s just the default.”

Connor let out yet another previously-unbeknownst captured breath. “Are you alright, Lieutenant?”

“All good. Feels like I’m twenty years younger.”

Connor couldn’t help his smile. “At least I know it’s definitely you in there.”

“‘Course it is. You think Gavin has a sense of humor?” Hank leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms. His image was completely alien and frankly rather unsettling. He was about to say something more when he looked back at the android. “And fuckin’-A, there goes the LED.”

The android’s eyes refocused (Connor decided he was very much not a fan of that) and blinked, confused. His hand lowered from his temple, confusion just beginning to deepen when he shouted, “ _Christ_!” He swatted at the air and stumbled back. “What the—! _What—?!_ ”

“Well, don’t give yourself an aneurism over it,” Hank advised, smirk firmly affixed for the foreseeable future.

He turned his attention to Hank, taking a brief moment to process before becoming absolutely livid. “ _You!_ ” In two quick strides, Reed had Hank’s shirt balled in his fist and yanked him to his feet. “What the fuck is this? Huh?! If this is some fuckin’ Jedi mind trick, you’re dead, ya hear me? What the _fuck_ did you do??”

“Nah, no tricks, except the cold case to lure you in here. It’s all the real deal.”

“You plastic prick! I don’t care if you’re the goddamn star of the office, Connor, I’m gonna decommission you myself if you don’t fucking fix this _right fucking now!_ ”

“Connor?” Hank feigned surprise, mouth hanging open incredulously. “You— you mistook me for Connor? I— well, I guess that was a normal assumption, it was his body, after all, but really not that insightful, is it, Gavin? I’m nothing like Connor. Am I?” He directed the question to the third party in the room.

“I would hope not.” Connor received a glance from Reed. His face was becoming a melting pot of emotions, teeth bared, eyes wide, LED erratic and crimson. “If we could be mistaken for each other, then that would mean I’ve fallen to the level of a human, which is completely contradictory to my design.”

“What design? Have you looked in a mirror recently?”

“What—” Reed held Hank out to arm’s length, his other hand clutching his hair. “Just… what the _fuck_ are you two on about?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be a detective?”

“Hank?” Grabbing his shirt with both hands this time, he pulled him up a couple inches to eye level. “Hank fucking Anderson? How the _fuck_ —!”

“RK800?” Connor interrupted. “Set maximum output to 30% volume.”

“What does—? How did—!?” Reed’s voice was capped at a reasonable conference room level, a fact that only served to further enrage him to incomprehensibility. Giving up on words, he threw back a fist, fully ready to maim a man, but he paused when Hank barked a laugh.

“What’re you gonna do, break my nose? Fracture my jaw?” His smile widened. “Go ahead, dickwad, it’s your own body. Didn’t know you were such a masochist.”

His scowl deepened. Connor was honestly a bit awed by how terrifying his face could look when someone truly irate was using it. Reed pushed Hank away, watching as he stumbled into the chair and rolled a few feet further. Simmering, he glanced between the two of them, LED still stuck on red. Then it flickered and settled for cycling yellow. Eventually, he spat, “So what? You two fuckers somehow fairy-dusted your way into _Freaky Friday_ and dragged me along for the ride for some goddamn reason?”

“Is that the only body swap reference there is in pop culture?” Connor asked Hank.

Hank shrugged. “Most popular one, maybe. There’s, like, six movies.”

“In a series or—”

“Is _someone_ ,” Reed shouted, as loudly as he could with his volume restriction, “gonna tell me how to get out of this—” he waved a hand at himself, “—this… _thing_?”

“Hm? Oh.” Hank leaned into the chair and crossed his arms again. “Nah.”

“Nah?!”

“Yeah. ‘Nah.’ We decided you were being too much of a dick, so think of this as our way of putting you in Time Out.”

“But you can fix this?”

“Probably.”

“Proba—!” Reed threw his head back and hands up, pacing in a tight circle, fingers curling into fists by his ears. He rounded on Hank, again ready to pummel him, but he stopped short, nose wrinkled, fist trembling. He jabbed a finger at Hank. “Two can play at this game. Don’t think I’m letting the kid off the hook so easily.” He swung around, lunging at Connor.

He had anticipated that. “Lock ambulatory servos,” he announced, and Reed stuck to the floor.

With his legs locked in place, he couldn’t do more than struggle. He twisted and threw a punch. It fell a few inches short of Connor’s face. “Fuck!” he shouted at the volume of one presenting a summary of the previous fiscal year to twenty to thirty coworkers. “Stop doing that!”

Connor smiled, a growing feeling of satisfaction replacing any initial apprehension. “Sorry, Detective Reed,” he said politely, “but when a human gives you an order, you obey. That was your mantra, remember?”

“Fuck you.” Reed gave up struggling and settled for glares. “Fuck both of you. Why does this fucking body follow orders better than you ever did?”

“Because you don’t know how to deviate. I suggest you get used to it.” Connor checked Hank’s phone. It was nearing eleven, with a chance of rain in the afternoon. “I should get going,” he told Hank. “Do you think you’ve got everything covered here?”

“Going?” asked Reed. “Going where?”

Hank ignored the detective. “Looks good here, kid. Have fun.”

“You, too, Lieutenant. And Detective?” He stepped up to the android and adjusted his tie. It had come a bit loose and had been bothering him. It was unsettling enough to watch his facsimile act like a hotheaded prick; the least he could do is look neat. “Try not to break anything. Ordering replacement parts would probably be delayed by the holiday. It would be inconvenient.”

Reed slapped his hand away. “We’ll see.”

Better than nothing. “RK800, return to normal functions.”

His weight shifted as his legs unlocked, and his eyes flickered to a notification. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked away. “About goddamn time.”

At some point, his LED had gone back to blue, which was as good a sign as any. Connor said his farewells, went to retrieve his jacket from his desk, and left for the car, leaving behind a human looking more overjoyed and vindictive than Connor had ever seen him, an android caught between a scowl and a pout, and yet another coffee left forgotten and cold by Hank’s monitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The coffee line was an afterthought because I too forgot the coffee


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, gee, it's been a bit of a spell. I got caught up writing Connor's next chapter before I was like, 'hold on, he's driving at the mo', it should be Hank next. Whoops.'

“And then there were two,” Hank announced, folding his hands behind his head as the conference room door closed. If he remembered his android mannerisms correctly, quoting something should make the source information pop up on the RK800’s HUD.

The way Gavin’s eyes flickered to the side before scrunching shut as he pinched the bridge of his nose meant he was right.

“Agatha Christie, my ass.” He clicked his tongue and crossed his arms, fingers picking at his sleeve while his eyes glared into the middle distance. “Gotta fuckin’ turn off this Siri in my head before it drives me insane.”

“Can’t.”

“Whaddya mean ‘can’t’? He’s a robot. You just reprogram shit to get it to do what you want.”

“But why would you want to do something to hinder performance? That’s just irrational.”

Gavin scoffed. “Irrational. Obnoxious, more like.”

“If there’s one thing that androids aren’t, it’s irrational, so much so that it can be obnoxious.”

“I can knock your lights out, you know.” He curled his hand into a fist. “If there’s one thing that androids _are_ , it’s strong as fuck. One swing and I can shut you up for days.”

“Ya really gonna do that?” Hank raised an eyebrow, more easily than usual. “Really, Gavin. We both know you’re kinda too full of yourself to do that to _this_ face.”

The LED turned yellow. He stood stiff, raising his chin, staring down at Hank while the light spun. He considered it. Then he scowled, swung his fist over his head, and slammed it on the tabletop. “You better pray this is temporary, Hank,” he spat, “because if I find out we’re gonna be like this for weeks, I will start breaking some fuckin’ bones.”

“Yeesh. Cool it, kid.” A small cluster of new cracks in the finish were revealed when Gavin took his hand back and flexed his fingers. Or maybe cracks in the woodwork itself. Hank took a moment to thank whomever that those cracks weren’t on his skeleton before reassuring, “It won’t be weeks. I don’t want to be you forever. I’d sooner be an android.”

“Then why the fuck—” Gavin stopped. He sighed and pulled out another chair from the table. “Forget it,” he said as he dropped into it, propping his forearms over his knees. “You not gonna tell me, are you.”

Hank shrugged. “It was a spur-of-the-moment thing.”

“And I’m supposed to believe that?” He clapped his hands together before throwing his arms open. “I’m in a fucking _android_. This doesn’t just happen on a whim. We’ve got some great tech going in 2039, but that still doesn’t explain how the hell you did _this_.”

“Now that.” Hank held a finger to his lips. “That’s still top secret.”

“Fuck off.”

Hank smirked. He crossed his arms over his chest, running a thumb over his fingertips. There was something off, some slight difference in the sensation that he couldn’t pinpoint. Maybe they weren’t as rough as his own hands. Maybe that was a scar? He held his right hand up, artificial light highlighting the textures on his skin, including a line across the pad of his middle finger. “Now that’s an interesting scar,” he mused.

“If you fuckin’ molest my body, I will file sexual harassment.”

“Oh, you wish. Stop being a diva. How’d you get this?”

For a moment, he thought he wasn’t going to answer. Gavin glared at him in a very not-Connor way, brow heavy, eyes prepped to be narrowed. His hands tapped on the armrests. His knee bounced out of habit, keeping his heel off the ground. Then he said, “Barfight. Back in college.”

“Huh. I’d think a barfight would explain something like—” he gestured at the scar he knew was on the bridge of his nose— “but your finger? Usually they’re all tucked away in a fist.”

Gavin dropped his head back and gave Hank the finger. “I flipped off some guy and his friend took a swipe at me with a pocket knife. I think he was trying to cut off my finger but missed his mark.”

“Fuck yeah, he did, by a couple inches.” He ran his thumb over it again. “Too shallow, too.”

“Still enough to scar.” His hand waved dismissively. “Just another one to add to the pile.” Stilling his hand, Gavin looked at it for a second, turning it slightly. “Unlike Mr. Perfect here, right?” he asked. Some of the venom had begun to drain from his bite. “Android skin’s just a projection. Even if the plastic is scratched, the projection doesn’t have to show it.”

Hank watched him for a moment until Gavin noticed and quickly dropped his hand. “I guess,” agreed Hank. “Dunno, never really thought about it. Seems to me that it would’ve been easier to just make the plastic skin-colored instead of all the fiberoptic shit or whatever they do.”

“Android synthetic skin consists of a claytronic fluid of programmable matter that adheres to and can detach at will from the acrylonitrile butadiene…styrene casing…of….” He slowed, scrunching his eyes shut. “The fuck was that?”

Hank snickered. He didn’t get a chance to answer before Gavin waved a hand to cut him off. “Wait, wait, shut up. It just told me what that was and is trying to get me to say it like some kind of goddamn puppet.”

“Fun, ain’t it?” Hank leaned forward. “Wanna see something really fun?”

Gavin gripped the armrest, ready to lunge. “Hank, if you start on that android command shit, I swear—”

“RK800?”

His back straightened, threat silenced, instantly becoming as placid as a machine. Hank watched him. He hadn’t seen Connor like that in a long, long time. After a long moment, the android’s nose wrinkled, breaking the illusion that it was still his friend. Gavin’s eyes shifted to flick molten anger his way, but otherwise, he was stuck.

Hank pushed himself to his feet. The knot in his shoulder was nothing compared to the cracking joints he was used to, and as he rolled his shoulders, he sighed in contentment. Arthritis minimal, a few pounds shed, short hair and stubble—he really did feel like he was back in his thirties. Unlike the alien experience of being an android, he felt comfortable. “Right. RK800?” he asked, cracking his neck. “How many chiropractors are there in the Detroit area?”

His glare lost its edge for a fraction of a second. “Forty-six.”

“Find the one closest to Gavin Reed’s house and make him an appointment. Not for today,” he added as he found himself wandering the room. “Maybe next week, if possible.”

“Appointment booked for Tuesday, July 12, at 3:30 PM.”

“Swell.” He rubbed the nape of his neck. “Trust me, you could use it.”

Rounding behind him, Hank noticed his shoulders twitch and the slow, struggling turn of his head to keep his eyes on him. “Just you fuckin’ wait, Anderson,” Gavin hissed. “Just wait and see.”

Hank gave him a smug smirk. “What’s the definition of an empty threat?”

His eye twitched. “A threat that someone does not really mean or cannot follow through on.”

“Uh-huh.” He found Gavin’s phone in his pocket. Facial recognition unlocked it as soon as he held it up. “Now if you review DPD guidelines, US federal law, and Michigan state law—hell, all the state laws—is there any mention of, oh….” He hummed and opened the phone’s front camera. “Replacing the soul or consciousness in one body with that of another? Any mention at all?”

As that riveting search began (it was enough to dull Gavin’s seething into a neutral blank gaze, LED flickering into a progress bar), Hank leaned against the table and took in his new image on the screen. Wow, it was something. He ran a hand along his jaw, the screen mirroring it, and something in his gut twisted in on itself. “Oy vey,” he muttered, paying particular attention to the lower pitch of his voice. His gelled hair didn’t feel as crispy as he expected; it must not take much gel at all to get it to stay slicked back. Without hesitation, he ruffled his hair out of place, picking apart a couple clumps that stuck together. Kinda wavy. Along with his dull clothes and unshaven face, making his hair spike out in every direction only served to land him firmly in the ‘disheveled mess’ category.

“No results found,” the RK800 announced, then with more emotion, Gavin barked, “However, it sure as shit can be classified as—!”

“There, no results. No harm done, then.” Hank took a picture of himself before smoothing his hair back in place and completing his circuit around his coworker. “It’s really not that bad. Stop being a little bitch.”

“I fucking hate your guts, Hank.”

He froze, a chill shocking his back rigid. Being said without the expected anger or condescension, for a moment, he sounded just like Connor.

Before he could hope Gavin didn’t notice, the conference room door slammed open, making them both jump. “The hell are you doing in here?” Jeffery asked, not quite at the level of a shout. “Even when its built into your head, you can’t check your texts. My office.” He left, leaving the door open.

“Built into…?” Gavin raised an eyebrow in Hank’s direction. “Did he mean me or what?”

“Dunno. Did you get a text?”

“I don’t think—no.” His eyes flickered. “No messages at all, like, ever. Does Connor not text?”

“You’re not Connor.” Hank put his phone away and followed Jeffrey with a, “C’mon.”

The walk from the conference rooms to the captain’s office seemed to take longer than he remembered—just a touch longer. Perhaps it was his new height, his stride not as long. Perhaps it was just his mind playing tricks on him, but he had walked through the station nearly every day for the past couple decades. He looked back when he was in the doorway to see Gavin still in the room, but he soon rolled his eyes and left.

“Gavin?” Jeffrey stood behind his desk, a tablet in hand. He waved him out with his free hand and said, “Sorry, I just meant— I just need an android for this.”

Hank smirked and stepped inside, closing the door. “Heya, Jeffrey, slight correction: Guess who’s not Gavin!”

For a moment, all he got was an impassive stare. “You’re kidding me,” he deadpanned.

“Nah, J-man.” He held his arms out and spun in place like a model. “I got to thinking: Since I can be an android, why not also try to reclaim my youth?”

He stared. Then he rubbed his eyes, looking ten times more tired when he returned to staring. Eventually, he asked, “And Gavin is…?”

 _“Captain_ _Fowler!”_

On cue, Gavin barreled into the office and grabbed Hank by the collar. “Do you know what these chucklefucks have been up to?”

“Jesus Christ, you put him in a robot.” Jeffrey looked like he wanted to die. “Why’d you have to bring him in on this.”

“You _knew_?” He tightened his grip on his collar. “How long has this shit been going on?!” Hank wondered if he was going to pick him up off the ground. Androids were strong, but that strong? Not sure.

Jeffrey grumbled and dropped the tablet on their side of the desk. “Welcome to the club,” he sighed. “I was just going to put Hank on this to keep him out of trouble, but now it looks like I gotta keep both of you in check. Plus you have all the tech now, Gavin.”

“Now, wait a sec, Jeffrey,” Hank jumped in, “it sounds like you got us a case.”

“Somehow, on today of all days, in this situation out of all insane situations.” He turned on the tablet, revealing a summary from the first responders, three headshots, and a photo of a dead android. “Suspected homicide, drugs and alcohol assumed to be involved. Victim’s memory core is missing, and the other two were too fucked up to remember anything. I want you both to leave immediately.”

“Connor’s his partner, not me,” Gavin complained. “Go dig up Connor from wherever he is and make him go.”

“Connor took the rest of the day off. And besides, for all intents and purposes, Gavin—” He jabbed a finger his way. “ _You’re_ Connor. I was going to give it to Hank as a solo gig, all the android crimes experience bundled with the Inspector Gadget tech, but look what I got instead: Starsky and Hutch, ‘cept you’re both Starsky.”

“It’s fine,” Hank said. He shrugged out of Gavin’s grip while his LED blinked yellow. “If he’s too scared of not being able to solve a case as an android and would rather stay in the boring, empty office all day, I understand. I can handle it on my own.”

Before Gavin could snap back, Jeffrey said, “I know that’s an obvious taunt to egg him into going, but it’s actually not his choice. Frankly, it’s creepy as hell seeing you two like this, and I don’t want you in my precinct. You’re both going.”

“Are we not going to mention how I’m fucking _trapped in an android_ because of this asshole?” demanded Gavin, taking a step towards his boss. “This is workplace harassment!”

“Look, I don’t know what it is, and I don’t really want it to be commonplace enough to find out, but we can deal with it later when you’re not wearing Connor’s face.” He grimaced. “Never seen him look this pissed off and I hate it.”

“That’s the goddamn problem—!”

“Just go do your job and stop exaggerating! You’re not ‘trapped.’”

Gavin paused. He cocked his head and leaned over the desk, hands on either side of the tablet. “Do you know how long this lasts?” he asked.

Jeffrey looked at him. “More or less.”

“How long?”

He raised an eyebrow. His gaze darted back to a smirking Hank for a second before he said, “How ‘bout I tell you when you solve this case?”

“God _fucking_ —!” He caught himself before his hand could slam on the table and shouted, “Fine! Fine, we’ll go! We’ll go and catch a murderer real quick and then people will start fucking talking to me about this body swapping bullshit! Motherfucking…!” His complaints continued under his breath as he grabbed the tablet, spun around, yanked open the door, stuffed his hand in his pocket, and stalked out.

He didn’t get very far before he stopped, rounded back to Hank, held out his hand, and demanded, “Keys.”

“You seem stressed,” Hank commented nonchalantly. He tried to pat him on the shoulder, but his hand was slapped away before he could. “It’s alright, I’ll drive.”

“Like hell you are. Give me my keys.”

“Or—” He found a ring of keys in his jeans pocket and dangled it between two fingers. “Are they technically _my_ keys now?”

Without a word, Gavin snatched them away and left. Hank chuckled, noting how his gait was more emotive than Connor’s had ever been, and said, “I’m gonna die.”

“That’s a safe bet.” Jeffrey ran a hand down his face and sat down. Chin in hand, he slowly shook his head. “It’s all on you though. Why would you…? Why? Just why?”

“Payback. He makes it too easy with that short fuse of his, and right now, I’m the one person he won’t punch. Front row tickets, man!” His phone buzzed. Upon seeing his face, it lit up with a text reading _GET THE FUCK OUT HERE._ “Gotta go,” he announced, slipping his jacket off to prep for the summer heat. “I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.”

And with a pep in his step, Hank left. “You’re not invincible forever,” Jeffrey called after him, to which he held up a hand without looking back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this one's not going to be shorter than Mad Machinery like I had hoped, huh. Gosh dang. Ah, beans. Why do I always do this to myself. Guess we're in for the long haul.
> 
> Since this’ll take longer than the last, I’ll mention this now: the title comes from “Digital Man” by Rush, again off the album _Signals._ I originally wanted to get a title from _Grace Under Pressure,_ in keeping with the Rush theme and also because that was their album after _Signals_ and this is a sequel (y'know, something no one would get). While that’s another fantastic album, it’s thematically darker and less tech-focused (except the song about “One humanoid escapee/ One android on the run”), so nothing really worked. I was close to calling it Reeling by on Celluloid, but I think I’ll save that one for an autobiography or blog or smth.
> 
> Other runner-up lyrics I jotted down as potential titles: Broken Contacts in Emotional Chemistry (the line after "faulty units in this mad machinery"), Adept at Adaptation (kinda plain), Music in the Abstract (kinda...abstract), and A Change of Synergy (kinda direct)


	4. Chapter 4

"ID, please."

As soon as he handed over his badge—well, "his"—the guard raised an eyebrow. "Oh," he said before taking it and taping his visor. "Now what brings an officer out today? And by himself...?" He gave him another skeptical glance.

Connor caught how that glance included the back seat of the car. "I'm not here for work," he assured. "Dr. Rosen's expecting me."

"Is she now?" The visor glowed, the headset dinged, and the guard's tongue clicked. "So she is. Good luck with her, Lieutenant. Heard she can be a handful when she gets a captive audience."

"Thanks. I think."

The gate opened as Connor took Hank's badge back, rolled up the window, and nodded at the indifferent guard before driving up to CyberLife Tower.

He had been to the Tower a few times since November, questioning some of the employees, holding off a protest once. The parking lot seemed relatively empty, and when he walked into the lobby, the spacious vastness was even more vast and spacious without the usual bustle. There was only one guard on the floor, appearing resolute in her attempt to appear alert. She stifled a yawn when Connor approached, and it took her a moment to recall which floor his destination was on.

No one in the elevator or the hallway after. It was around lunchtime, but this was more than that. Did everyone here also decide to take this week off?

He stopped in front of a closed door. The LCD screen under the dim window declared “Samira Rosen, Ph.D. – Out of Office.” The door propped open into a bright white lab five feet to the left looked more inviting.

Rapping his knuckles lightly against the doorframe, he poked his head into the room. It looked like a small chemistry lab, with labeled bottles lined up in a wall of glass cabinets, a pair of centrifuges diligently whirring away, and a single fume hood in the corner, along with another door in the back next to a rack of coats and masks. At first, Connor was almost disappointed. CyberLife couldn't afford more than this? Then his brain caught up and reminded him that CyberLife dealt in robotics, computing, and manufacturing. Why would they need a chemistry lab? "Hello?"

“Uh, hello? Hold on!” Something clattered in the back of the room, followed by wheels rolling over linoleum as a computer chair slid into view carrying a spry young man in an ill-fitting lab coat and plastic goggles. He slid the goggles up to his forehead, the pink ring pressed into his skin making his round glasses look twice as big. “Uh, hi? Can I help you?”

Connor opened his mouth, but the kid interrupted with, “Wait, aren’t you Hank Anderson?”

He wasn’t sure how to answer that. “Is Dr. Rosen around?”

“The doc? Yeah, she’s—”

“Connor!”

The back door was just an iota short of smashing open. Connor had looked up Sam Rosen before and knew what she looked like, but he didn’t expect her to practically bound across the room, grab his shoulders, and lean down to look him straight in the eye, a rather manic grin on her face. “RK800 #313 248 317-53 ‘Connor,’ it is _so_ wonderful to meet you! I’m so glad you could come!”

He blinked, mind taking a moment to file all this new information away and wrapping up with the thought that she and the RK800 model shared similar hairstyles. “Hello, Dr. Rosen.”

“Please, that’s what the press calls me. Sam.” Her hands let go only to clasp his hand in a vise-like grip. The handshake went on longer than Connor deemed necessary. “Remarkable,” she breathed, examining his face. “You sound exactly like Anderson—as you rightly would with his vocal cords—but with the precision intonation of an android. It’s exactly as I imagined, and yet the cognitive dissonance I’m getting from actually being here talking with an android speaking through a human is…is remarkable— Say something else!”

“I, ah….” He glanced down at his hand, still caught between both of hers. “I must admit, a handshake that has long passed the normal duration required by etiquette is one of the more uncomfortable sensations I’ve dealt with as a human.”

“Astounding.”

"Wait, Doc, _android?_ " The kid nudged his chair towards them, eyes wide. "Did you actually—?"

She gave him a sweeping wave. "Go to lunch, Aurel, we'll finish up later. Probably tomorrow."

"But I gotta wait for the samples to separate."

Sam rolled first her eyes then her whole head with a groan that turned into, "Fine, finish that, then lunch." She finally let go of his hand and pushed him out the door, shrugging off her coat as she went. "My office, then, if you will."

"But are you actually _the_ RK—?!"

The door shut him off. Connor watched him throw up his hands through the glass, unable to tell if it was out of exasperation or resignation. He waved as both an apology and a farewell before following Sam to her office.

White and blue in keeping with CyberLife’s motif, the room also had a flair of color in the bright books, pens, LEDs, LCDs, circuit boards, screens, scarves, sweaters, and trinkets stacked about. She snatched a red sweater from one of the guest chairs and tossed it onto her own. “Make yourself at home,” she said, sitting down and rummaging through her desk. “It’s as much of a home as my actual home, given the hours I’ve got here.”

“Thank you.” Connor settled in the now-empty chair. While it was a weight off his feet, it wasn’t terribly comfortable.

“Where is it, where is it…,” she muttered, digging through a drawer. “You’re probably like, ‘But she’s got hundreds of notebooks, she could use any of them,’ and I get it, but I wanna keep them all organized by topic, but I haven’t done anything handwritten about Josselin in—there it is!” She pulled out a pocket-sized notepad and flipped to find a blank page. “Gosh, some of this stuff is old,” she told him as she clicked a pen. “I’ve been trying to work out what exactly an android _is_ as an individual since before the revolution, but no one took me seriously until after, at which point they’re like, ‘Yeah, maybe this deviancy is a thing that’s here to stay now, let’s figure it out immediately,’ and I’m like, ‘If only there was a way to get to the core of an android,’ like the metaphysical core, not the thirium pump or nexus or whatever, and then the intern’s like—the last guy we had—he’s like, ‘You don’t happen to have like an evil brain-switching machine around here, do you, to just take the android out of the android?’ and that’s why I love getting kids in the lab: they come up with the zaniest stuff, and usually it’s completely unfeasible or ridiculous but occasionally they spout off something no adult already molded into the system would think of, and don’t judge me, I know now that the fourth _Freaky Friday_ is absolute trash, but that’s what I grew up with as a kid, and all those movies from that stint in the Eighties just got the imagination running, so instantly I was on board with the idea, so weeks of neuroscience and nanotech later, now with a new, slightly-downgraded intern—” She paused upon coming across the first clean page, one of the last ones, and conspiratorially shielded her mouth from view. “Don’t tell Aurel I said that, it’s not anything he did, it’s just a fact—but after a new intern and some biochem review, we got a prototype working in simulations, emailed it to you, and now here we are!”

She scribbled to get the pen’s ink flowing, huffed in satisfaction, and looked at Connor with a wide grin.

Connor stared at her.

“Oh!” Sam slapped her palm against her forehead, slicing through her hair with her fingers and tugging tufts to the side. “Oh, biological processing speed is so much more inefficient than what you’re used to, I’m sure—I’m surer than sure, it’s numbers—that must’ve been a lot for you, I’m sorry about that. Jeez, Doc, what a great first impression, rambling on. Good going.”

“It’s alright,” he assured, somewhat lying. When her hand slid down to cup her neck, her hair remained askew. “While adjustment is proceeding at an oftentimes-unfavorable rate, it’s only because of the temporary nature of these swaps. It is best that it’s temporary, but if I had been in a human body for a month straight, I’d be much more acclimated.”

She hummed. “Adjustment to human existence is believed to be attainable, you say?” She scribbled a note down.

“With enough time, as with anything.”

“No, not anything.” Sam held up her pen, wiggling it between two fingers. “With enough time—with all the time in the world, you think you could get a pen to, like, eat lunch with you? Could you discuss something as simple as, say, the fallacy of Moore’s Law? The optimists like to say yes, but let’s be real.” She tapped it against her page. She still wore a smile, but her initial mania was settling as she took the role of an observer. “The fact that it feels attainable is incredibly significant: Human life may be different, but it’s comprehensible to an android mind.”

“Dr. Rosen—”

“Sam.”

“Sam. Is this a meeting with you or with CyberLife?”

“While CyberLife is supporting this on paper, it’s really me doing the bulk of the work, so I’d say it’s mostly for my own personal curiosity.”

Connor found his fingers tapping on the armrest. “So this isn’t a meeting about us continuing to use the network on our own time after the initial request? Or not sending the recording file back until the second switch?”

“Oh, no no, of course not. I don’t care, and I certainly didn’t bother telling the powers that be about minutiae like that.” She waved her hands flippantly. Connor guessed she would be doing a lot of that. “I just figured some emotional shit went down the first time that you’d rather not send to a coldhearted scientist, it’s cool, privacy and all that. No harm to us, doesn’t cost us a dime, go have fun with your lives.”

That was a relief. The thought of getting on CyberLife’s critical side again had been bothering him for the past month. “That is an astute guess. Thank you, Sam. CyberLife and I have not always been on the best terms.”

“Not a problem. Now, if we’re trading off questions….” She tapped her pen on the page and scribbled something. “What is your conception of the self, and how has it changed since the experiment began?”

His brain stalled. Philosophy was hard enough to think about without running in circles as an android, and now to do it without parallel processing? “Um,” he started. It nudged his thoughts into sluggish motion. “I don’t think I… _had_ a sense of self at first.” Something in his veins turned to slow-dripping honey as he thought back. “Self-reflection isn’t in the android program. Were it not for the unique design and implementation of the RK800 model, I’m not sure if I would’ve even considered it.”

Her pen made a note. “You’re unique in many ways, Connor,” she pointed out. “Which do you mean?”

“Realtime memory backups and transference.”

“Ah, that makes sense.” Scritch scratch. “How you were designed to be disposable in the field.”

Something in him reacted to that: a twitch in his hand; a pulling across his shoulders and chest; a tightness around his cheekbones. While true, he did not like her statement. Normally, he appreciated directness. Not now.

Oblivious to his reaction, Sam continued, waggling her pen absently. “You were designed essentially around being a packet of memories and experiences. Should you befall a permanent shutdown, you could be brought back via backup in an identical unit. This sacrificed having multiple individual active units in favor of one….” She tapped some dots onto the page before writing a word. “Immortal.”

“I’m not immortal,” he protested automatically. Something in his breathing changed, and he found himself leaning forward in his chair. He was becoming emotional; he wasn’t entirely sure why.

“Oh, sure, sure, not in the poetic sense.” Sam’s hand circled as she listed, “There’s entropy, degradation, finite resources, global flooding, the eventual snuffing out of the sun, and inevitable heat death of the universe, so no, not actually immortal, but in case you haven’t realized, Connor, you’re the closest thing there is.” She gasped lightly, quickly adding to her notes and muttering, “Maybe that’s why you’re called Connor….”

His growing emotions (whatever kind of emotions they were) paused. “Wait, why?”

“After the Highlander, Connor MacLeod. I’ll have to ask the guys in R&D later. But the point is, were it not for this planned body-hopping, you’re saying you would’ve never considered a deeper sense of self….” She scratched her head. Her hair went from askew to askew and erratic.

“I…I suppose that’s a reasonable conclusion.” Connor took a breath, feeling some tension leave his body like magic as he exhaled. “Knowing that I could persist in another RK800 unit introduced the concept that maybe I wasn’t just an RK800 android.”

Sam smiled, watching him for a solid few moments. Then she went back to her notes. “And after throwing a human body into the mix?”

Connor’s gaze drifted to his hands in his lap. Still a foreign sight. No smooth plastic skin. No dark jeans. However, it no longer knotted his insides or sent him shivering with vertigo. “It dug up those thoughts again, mostly,” he admitted. “It brought with it the opportunity to know what existential dread felt like—what _anything_ truly felt like—but it was also comforting to have experiential data to help work through a problem.” He sent her a small smile, hoping to dispel the weird energy nagging at his senses. “Surely, as a scientist, you can relate.”

“Oh, don’t you know the way to a woman’s heart!” She finished a note before setting her pen down, for the first time since she had dug up the notebook. “Alright, that’s a good start. Your turn.”

His turn to ask a question. He hadn’t come prepped with any, expecting the encounter to be more one-sided, and questions from the previous month were now scattered far and wide. Blinking, he searched his thoughts as efficiently as he could with a human brain. It wasn’t long before he settled on, “Why?”

Sam cocked an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Yes. Surely there is a solution to your android identity problem to be found in the field of computing.” He gestured at himself. “Why go through all this?”

She tapped a finger against her cheek, lightly bobbing her head from side to side as she considered the question. “Yeah, that’s probably true,” she admitted. “An issue surrounding computer science should have an answer in computer science. The problem was that’s where I started looking, but we didn’t make any solid headway until my intern’s joke started Josselin.”

“Project Josselin?”

“Yeah, name’s my idea. Y’know, unpublished inventions going by secret unrelated codenames and all that. I spent so long trying to deduce something individualistic from the android program, but that’s like unraveling the human genome—something that took over a decade to do, mind you. With Josselin, I had hoped to just take the individual out from all the code hiding it from view—which, hey! Looks like it worked!”

“It worked, but—” Connor shifted in his uncomfortable chair and opened his hands in a vague emphasis of scale. “Something of this magnitude— You’ve thought of the possibilities—the opportunities this opens up! There’s much more than just the answer to a curiosity. Why bring this power into being for just that?”

“We have considered the possibilities this opens up, yes, from medicine to espionage. That being said, with you being our first test subject, we haven’t had the chance to go any further yet.”

His mouth fell open. “First?”

“Not including animal testing. First humanoid subject.”

His skin prickled, his breath catching in his throat as he swallowed. Something about that rubbed him the wrong way. Completely flipping his sense of identity…over email. Unprompted. Without prior testing. “You haven’t tried this yourself?” he asked before he knew why. (Was this exasperation?)

“Gosh, no!” She barked a laugh. “Who do I look like, Henry Jekyll? You’re just asking for trouble when you test on yourself.”

Something irked him about her manner. There were too many _‘somethings’_ , too many things he couldn’t define. Everything she said and did was friendly, personable, and scientifically sound. Because it directly affected his life, though—his and those of his friends—well, friend and coworker—it made him…uneasy. “Perhaps you should, Dr. Rosen.” He watched for her reaction. “Some firsthand insight might do you good.”

Sam hesitated. Her hands flipped to a new page. “Seems like as good a time as any to ask this next one, then: Would you be willing to swap bodies with one or two other humans in a controlled setting here at CyberLife? It would be scheduled, managed, everything agreed upon beforehand, and just for all the boring measurements. Duration, processing speeds, reflexes: the works.”

He was falling deeper and deeper into being a lab rat. “Swap with whom?”

“A willing volunteer. Nothing’s set yet. Maybe Aurel; I’m sure he’d be stoked. Or….” She clapped her hands together, pursed her lips, and looked anywhere but his face. “I will admit…I’m curious what it’s like. More than curious. Enamored, even. I’m sure facts and figures don’t do it justice. It’s hard holding a magic spell in your hands and not immediately using it on yourself, but if it went wrong, I’d be too indisposed to fix it.”

This was the first time her demeanor had changed, Connor realized, and it wasn’t until she spoke about herself. She was completely unperturbed toying with the lives and identities of others. Distant. She was a scientist, and to observe a system without bias, one must be outside the system. She was just doing her job. But…. Connor shifted again. He began to suspect his discomfort was more than physical.

Her head tilted to one side. How much time had passed? “I…,” he started, catching himself off guard when it wasn’t his voice that came out. Of course. How could he forget? “I think…I’d rather think it over when I don’t have a human brain.”

With a nod, Sam circled a note and said, “Please, take your time. My door is always open.”

“Thanks.”

His turn for a question. Before he could begin digging through his head (without a search function, he again lamented), he felt a tremor in his intestines that heralded a low grumble. He cringed, his nose wrinkling. What a distressing sensation. Without status updates, he could almost forget the internal, organic, mysterious, squishy workings of the human body, but then something involuntary just had to go and remind him again of their presence. “Here’s a question: If we’re only talking right now, may we continue this over lunch?”

“Are you expecting me to put that expense on the company card? Because that’s exactly what I’m going to do!” She tossed her pen onto her desk and ruffled her hair as she stood. Connor followed, watching as she attempted to smooth her hair back semi-successfully. When she noticed, she held her hands away from her head. “Presentable enough?”

“More or less.”

“Wonderful.” Retrieving a small CyberLife-emblazoned satchel from under her desk, she scooped the notepad and pen into it, slung it over her shoulder, and tapped something under the tabletop that made the door glide open. With a sweeping gesture to the doorway, she asked, “Is Anderson allergic to seafood?”

What a strange person.

After informing her that he was allergic to neither fish nor shellfish as they left, she excitedly went on about the various eateries in the neighborhood, from a lobster bar to sushi to ceviche—all the odd restaurants that are found in urban industrial districts aimed at visiting CEOs and potential buyers instead of the general public: they’re fantastic yet expensive, so she only went when CyberLife was paying, but since she didn’t work client-side, it was too rare an occurrence. She went back to the topic of ceviche when Connor gave up trying to follow along. Her genuine enthusiasm and jovial nature were appealing, and he could feel it infecting his mood in that most human way. Then he remembered their discussion, his discomfort at her lack of empathy, and how the mention of ethics was glossed over. He couldn’t quite tell where her moral compass was pointing.

Hank’s phone buzzed in the elevator. He unlocked it to one new message from “Gavin Fucking Reed” with an image attachment. Connor reminded himself that Hank had Reed’s phone when the image loaded. He stopped short. He stared, something in his mind dropping a roadblock in his thoughts.

Then he received another message and laughed, a startling snort that caught in his nose.

Sam glanced over. “Something funny?”

His hand slapped over his mouth to keep a rapidly growing smile from escaping the confines of his lips. He tapped out and sent a reply then turned off the screen before it could trigger another reaction. “Just an update from the lieutenant,” he said, a slight strain on his voice. He cleared his throat with another snicker. “He seems to be having a fun day.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't mean for this chapter to get this long. Connor's were supposed to be the short ones, just prompting questions and philosophy, while Hank's have the bulk of the plot. His next chapters should be quicker (I've got ch8 already written; that's a speedy one, only two pages), assuming this doesn't get away from me again


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you could tell, I know a thing or two about science and technology. That knowledge absolutely does not extend to law and order. I'm running off of D:BH itself and too many episodes of Bones on TNT, so just go with it. I normally do silly body swaps and philosophy, not case fics, so hey-o, let's see how this goes~
> 
> From here on out, there'll be mentions of suicide, depression, (android) injuries - a canon-typical android death investigation

The ride to the apartment complex was tense.

Hank doubted that Gavin normally kept his car in manual drive. What was more likely was he had switched from autonomous to manual so he could keep his attention firmly affixed to the road. Hands secured at ten and two and eyes ahead, he hadn’t said a word the whole trip. Did he even blink? Wait, he didn’t need to.

Hank didn’t try to strike up a conversation. At first. One could only take so much 2010s electronic alt-rock thumping through the sound system. After a few minutes of silence, incessive bass, and simmering embers in android form, he searched for the case report, uncovering it propped under the center cupholder.

The case was called in by one of the suspects midmorning. Faraday Robles (26) woke up after a night out in the apartment of the victim, Matteo (MP200). They found Matteo in the living room, multiple components cracked, some broken outright (interestingly, it noted “some failed”). His thirium pump was removed and dropped at his side, and his memory core was missing. Robles called it in as a suicide.

Also with them was their friend, Juno (PJ500), who was in standby in the kitchen and awoken by Robles. She couldn’t remember the previous night after presumed drug use (drug as of yet unknown). Juno and Robles were available in Robles’ apartment two floors up for questioning.

Sorting through the provided photos, it did look like a suicide: The thirium pump can be easily removed, and besides the cracks, there were no signs in the environment of a struggle. Having cracks in the chassis was a bit odd, and removing and discarding the cortex beforehand was a tricky procedure. Plus, without memories, why would the victim then have the drive to continue through with suicide? No wonder Jeffrey had assigned it as a homicide. Something was off.

Hank frowned. He rubbed a hand along his jaw, disliking the gritty stubble that replaced his usual beard. “Didn’t Jeffrey say this should be a quick one?” he wondered aloud. He didn’t expect an answer, but he hoped it might break the tension.

He didn’t get an answer. He didn’t even get a reaction, damn android placidity.

A direct approach, then. “Did you review this yet?”

“Yup,” Gavin said, popping the “p.”

“Get through it all?”

“Fuckin’ downloaded to my brain as soon as I touched it.”

“Ah. Right. Interfacing.”

Gavin went back to ignoring him, glancing to the passenger side only to take a turn.

Hank found himself staring. He had seen someone else act like Connor—he’d seen _himself_ act like Connor, just an hour ago. That was disorienting in its own right, watching and interacting with someone who looked like his clone but behaved so precisely and deliberately like his friend. He still hadn’t fully gotten used to it, but the shock factor had worn off. This, however, was the opposite: This was Connor acting like someone else. His brow was heavier, his eyes more scathing than observant, his fingers drumming irregularly on the steering wheel, his body leaning forward, away from the seat. On the surface, he looked the same, but like a man possessed, there was something inherently _wrong_ , something still vaguely familiar, something that took a moment to equate with Gavin Reed. Even when he spoke, there was a terseness tinging his words, using that doofy voice Hank had grown to enjoy but without its usual careful eloquence.

The car slowed, waiting to turn into the apartment parking lot. “Tch. Goddamn traffic,” that voice muttered. “Fuckin’ Fourth of July weekend traffic already. Fuckin’ oppressing my freedom.”

Definitely not Connor.

Clearing his throat and scrolling back to the top of the case file, Hank said, “Right, first step is to determine if this is a suicide or not. Shouldn’t be hard once we get in there. You scope out the apartment and do forensics; I’ll go upstairs and question the suspects to find out why this Faraday Robles would immediately assume it’s a suicide in the first place.”

“Whatever.” Gavin pulled up to the front entrance. “As if these incessant notifications in my head weren’t enough already. No, now they’re gonna be full of android components and thirium tags and shit.”

“Oh, drama queen, it’s not that bad. It’s pretty neat, actually,”—he tapped his temple—“playing with all the tech.”

Gavin glared at him. “You know what I did on the way here?” he asked, LED flickering blue. “Some shopping. Browsing this year’s Corvettes. Took a look at a few Lamborghinis, too. Was gonna get me a new ride, but as it turns out, it knows I’m not Connor and locked me out of your bank account, credit cards, and whatever else I’m sure the kid is linked to.”

“Well, duh. I’m trying to mess with ya, not fuck up my credit score.” He smirked, a cold sweat prickling his neck. He hadn’t thought of that. Thank Christ Connor’s login info didn’t stay behind in the RK800. Fucking-A, he lucked out. Jesus.

Gavin scoffed and hit a button on the dashboard, sliding the door open. Hand on the doorframe, he paused before climbing out. Hank did the same, watching Gavin over the roof of the car as he picked at the sleeve of Connor’s jacket. “It’s practically July,” he remarked, gesturing from his sleeve to the rest of his outfit. “Who wears a jacket in 85.8-degree Fahrenheit heat?”

Hank raised an eyebrow. “An android…? They don’t feel the heat.”

“I _know_ that, it’s just fucking weird.” He shed his jacket and chucked it into the backseat. “Just because I’m stuck in his plastic skin doesn’t mean I’m gonna follow his stiff dress code.”

As he tugged off his tie and tossed it on the pile, Hank was about to insist that they should keep up the façade, to protect both Connor’s image and CyberLife’s secret project. Then, watching Gavin consider his reflection in the window before rolling his sleeves to the elbow, he realized he didn’t care. Anything Gavin did today could be dismissed by Connor tomorrow as a glitch or a new program in beta. Gavin, however, didn’t have such excuses. All Hank had to do was be nice to someone and Gavin would never hear the end of it.

Gavin watched the window, turning slightly. A moment passed before he undid the top two buttons of his shirt and debated the look. Hank shook his head in disbelief and snuck a picture before asking, “Ya done yet?”

He leveled a glare. “Hey, it may be wicked _Miami Vice_ , but at least I’m not walking around looking like a stuffy-ass real estate agent anymore.” With a slap on the roof of the car, he sauntered toward the entrance, the car’s doors closing. Once Hank stepped back, it beeped and drove off, searching out a parking spot in the lot.

“Why do ya even care?” Hank called after him. He picked at his shirt. “Look at me. This is the most boring outfit in existence.” There was no response.

Phone still in hand, he searched through Gavin’s contacts as he walked. His was simply “Hank.” He opened up their brief text history and sent the latest picture, adding in another message, _living it up having looks for the first time in his life._

Connor replied, _Now I’ll have to iron that shirt later. Despicable. Pure evil._

“Connor? What’s up with the Tom Cruise look?”

“Trying out a whole new Connor.”

Hank slipped the phone back into his pocket as he caught up with Gavin at an apartment barred off with holotape. Ben Collins leaned against the doorframe, his grin falling to a polite smile when he spotted Hank. “Well, okay, really new. No Hank today?”

“You could say that.” Hank nodded. “Where’s the damage?”

“Ooh, look at that.” He nudged Gavin. “Proactive today, isn’t he?”

The android smirked. “But of course. With Hank slacking off, I can finally work with a capable detective.”

Ben blinked. He opened his mouth, but after failing to form a response, Gavin gave him a nod and pushed past him into the apartment. His brow raised as he watched him stroll onto the crime scene. When he turned back, gears turning, he asked, “Did I miss something?”

Hank barked a laugh and dropped a hand onto Ben’s shoulder. “You know what? I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.” With a pat, he followed his temporary partner, catching a confused sound from Ben behind him.

Despite being midday, the apartment wasn’t well lit; someone had set up a floodlight in the corner, casting the center of the room in sharp relief. Hank took note of the handful of evidence tags around the overall tidy, understated room before directing his focus to the cluster around the body on the floor.

The thirium pump had rolled away from his fingers, leaving a gaping hole in his bare chest. Hank grimaced, trying to ignore the fact that there was still some unevaporated thirium pooled in the crevasse. There were cracks along his arms, as well as on the side of his head. His skin had pulled away from some of the deeper cracks, revealing jagged circuitry below porcelain plastic. Even so, the damage was rather minor for a death. Or maybe it just looked that way without the scarlet blood that stained human crime scenes.

“So what’s his deal?” he asked.

“MP200 #001 876 346, designation ‘Matteo,’ nicknamed ‘Matt.’” Gavin’s focus was elsewhere as he accessed some database. “He was an older home model, first purchased and registered by a family in Cleveland eight years ago. They never filed a missing android report, and he is still listed as living at their Cleveland address, even though this apartment is also in their name.”

“Sounds like a pretty well-to-do family.”

“The Westover family has a net worth of $633.8 million. God damn.”

Hank whistled. “And he’s living here? In a barely-furnished flat?”

Gavin crossed his arms. “Maybe they have multiple apartments all around, and he faked his death to flee to Detroit.”

“And hid here for up to eight years without them knowing? And they also didn’t deactivate his family registration.”

“True.”

A moment of contemplation passed before Hank cleared his throat. “Well, you handle forensics, then, and I’ll do questioning.”

His nose wrinkled. “I don’t have to lick shit, do I?”

“I dunno, find out. RK800?” He smirked. “Run basic forensics.”

Gavin froze as his LED cycled. His eye twitched. “Fuck you.”

“Ah, what was that?”

His grip on his sleeve tightened before he swung his arm up in a crisp salute and hissed, “Fuck you, _sir_.”

One of the first responders looked up at them, equal parts startled and scared. Hank waved him off. “Superb,” he said before leaving Gavin to his work and searching the hallway for the elevator.

The apartment two floors up was much more homely, with all the not-quite-neon colors, wall décor, and plush furniture that the last one lacked. The cluttered living room was a lot to take in, from posters to clothes to occasional soda bottles to at least four Newton’s cradles—so much so that it took him a good moment to realize there was anyone else in the room. The soft light around her head told him this was Juno.

She sat on the couch, leaning forward, arms propped over her knees, hands clasped together. She didn’t react to his entry; she didn’t seem to be doing anything, staring blankly in the direction of the most complex Rubik’s cube Hank had ever seen, her golden LED steadily blinking with activity.

He watched her before clearing his throat. A glimpse of crimson flickered before she turned her head to him, obscuring the LED from view. She looked at him in the same unseeing manner before looking to his hip. “Oh,” she said. She rubbed her eyes. “Sorry, officer, I didn’t hear you come in. I guessed I zoned out while waiting.”

“That’s quite alright.” Hank patted his side, finding the badge Gavin normally wore on his belt before settling his hand in his pocket. “I’m, ah, Detective Reed. I take it you’re Juno?”

She nodded before sliding to one side of the couch. “Would you care to sit?” she offered. “I’d offer some kind of refreshment, but I really don’t think you’d want anything from Radar’s kitchen.”

“Thanks.” Hank joined her and asked, “Radar?”

“Faraday. Most of us call them Radar—just a nickname. They’re in their workroom right now. It’s all hitting ‘em pretty hard.”

“Just them? I know I just met you, but you don’t seem a hundred percent, either.”

“Of course I’m feeling shitty, but I haven’t known Matt as long as Radar has. They’ve been neighbors for years.”

Hank opened up the case notes on his tablet, highlighted ‘Faraday Robles,’ and added ‘Radar’ as a known nickname. Swapping to Juno’s section, he asked, “So what’s your story? I’m guessing you don’t live here, too.”

“No, I’m more out uptown. Radar was one of my students once, but the friendship thing happened after we both left the university.”

“You’re a teacher?”

“PJ500s were designed to be professors.” Juno turned to tuck her legs under her, leaning into the cushions. She had been fairly placid the whole time, lacking emotion in both voice and expression. Hank made a note wondering if androids can go into shock. “I taught physics at Wayne State,” she continued, “but I was deviant and thinking about quitting way before the revolution. At least I had a pretty safe job for an android, though, and once I deviated and taught the class my way, it was more fun, but after the revolution, I finished out the semester and left. I tutor online now, able to masquerade as a human pretty easily. But Radar—it was a coincidence, really. I ran into them at a bar one night, soon after I quit.”

Hank nodded along as he took notes. He was so swept up by the familiarity of his work that he startled himself by asking, “And Matteo?” He forgot he didn’t sound like himself today. “Also meet at a bar?”

“No, he doesn’t go out as much. Didn’t.” She bit her lip. “Didn’t go out as much. Radar was wasted one night, and it was the first time I had to take them home, but they gave me Matt’s apartment number instead of theirs. He was cool about it, though, and he let us stay the night. After that, Radar would bring him out with us often.”

“Like last night?”

She sighed. “Yeah.”

Even though he knew the answer, he asked, “What happened last night?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yeah, I heard.” He scrolled up to the initial report. “Sounds like you were pretty fucked up last night. Didn’t know androids could get blackouts.”

“Me, neither, and I’ve got plenty of experience.” At that, she gave him a small, guilty grin. “Y’know, just recreationally.”

“Just recreationally.”

“Y’know, when you first deviate and you have a lot of new emotions to work out.”

Hank held up his hands. “Hey, I’m just here for the homicide.”

That changed something in her face. If he wasn’t looking for it, he wouldn’t have noticed her eyes widen slightly. “Homicide?”

“Why? You think it’s actually a suicide?”

“I mean, what else could it be? He….” Juno’s eyes drifted down to the carpet. “He wasn’t doing so well.”

She didn’t offer up any more than that until Hank cleared his throat. “Matteo was depressed, detective,” she said. “He’s an old model, and his technology is becoming obsolete. Replacement parts are getting rarer and more expensive. He used to be a housekeeper and a caretaker, but with the son of the family now off to college, he felt guilty asking the family for the money. It’s not like they couldn’t spare it; it was dumb pride.”

The conversation stalled again, but he felt he had enough to start with. “Right, well, thank you, ma’am,” Hank said as he stood. “My partner downstairs is an android, if you want him to try and fix those corrupted memories—”

“No!” He jumped at the sudden energy, just as startled as Juno looked. “Accidental memory loss for androids is nigh impossible, detective, even from drug use. It only happens from intentional tampering—which I doubt—or a virus. I’ve been running scans since I woke up, so until I can locate and isolate whatever it is, I don’t want to risk it spreading.”

That seemed…odd. Oddly suspicious or oddly convenient. He was sure Connor had dealt with worse before. But it wouldn’t be Connor handling it this time. “Alright,” he conceded, “we’ll check in with you later. For now, would you mind introducing me to Faraday?”

She relaxed and swung her legs off the couch. “Sure.”

The hallway was clearly being used as extra storage. They stepped around an even more diverse menagerie than Hank could spot in the front room until they reached the last door, a circuitry pattern carved into its wood. Juno knocked. “Hey, Radar? Detective’s here.”

An unintelligible groan came from inside—or unintelligible to Hank. Juno answered, “No, it’s not. One Gavin Reed.”

A louder groan. Juno opened the door and went in first.

Whereas the rest of the apartment was filled with _stuff,_ this room was filled with _things:_ books, notebooks, colored pencils, graph paper, wires, cables, screwdrivers, two soldering guns, four monitors, at least three units that were either computers or servers, more than enough keyboards, mice, controllers—Hank stopped when he noticed a bed against the wall. Did they sleep in here, too? There’re no dressers or closets.

The person of interest was at the desk, cheek affixed to the tabletop and a book about homemade solenoids open over their head. They groaned again, more of a mumble this time.

Juno shook their shoulder. “You alright?”

“No,” they croaked, “but would anyone be?”

“No, I guess not. Good to talk to the cops?”

“…I guess.”

Juno smiled and bumped her fist on their shoulder before leaving.

When the door closed, they choked out a sob, sniffled, and rubbed their eyes with their shirt. “Dang androids,” they grumbled, still under the book. “They can just uninstall emotions. Not easily once deviant, but humans don’t even get the option.”

Hank waited, creating a new section in his notes. When they didn’t move, he asked, “Mx. Robles?”

They sat up, the book sliding off to the floor. Their curly hair engulfed their head, ringlets falling in their face and on their shoulders and twisted around each other every which way. When they swiveled so that Hank could see their face, their eyes were no longer wet or red, but he could tell from the weary squint that the only reason they weren’t still crying was because they ran out of tears.

Hank nudged the badge at his hip and introduced himself (or who he currently was). Not finding another chair in the room, he gestured to the bed. “May I?”

It took a moment for Faraday to react. They nodded quickly.

“So….” He sat on the edge of the bed. “Radar. That’s an interesting nickname.”

They shrugged. “It was my own creation back in college. It mostly derives from my name, but it’s not totally obvious, like you gotta think about it a bit. It also sounds techy, like the sidekick in a cartoon. You think ‘Radar’ and you think the competent guy getting stuff done in the background on a laptop that always has wi-fi. I figured, y’know, maybe it’d help get me a place in the industry—my degree’s in physics, y’see. Plus it makes my name alliterative, alluding to classic superheroes and the like. And it’s a palindrome. That’s just a neat bonus.”

Hank blinked. They weren’t looking at him, and their voice had stayed relatively flat throughout. “A lot of thought gone into that,” he commented when they didn’t offer more.

Another shrug and a sniffle. “I was throwing ideas around, and when I hit Radar, it just clicked.”

They brushed some hair behind an ear and twiddled their thumbs, only glancing up at Hank once. Definitely in mourning. “So what do you do, Radar?” he asked.

“I, um—it’s kinda food service, but like—how most restaurant and fast food gigs are for androids these days? I’m a, like, county manager for a couple chains, making sure everything still runs smoothly, doing tech support and quick repairs, being the token human when old people still bitch about androids…. It’s alright.” Radar rubbed their neck. “It’s something to get by on. Kinda feel like the degree was a waste, but it’s not like I really wanted it in the first place or anything. With a name like ‘Faraday,’ as a kid, I read too much about Michael Faraday and did a lot of science—a lot of those circuit kits, spoons in the microwave, y’know, so physics for college seemed obvious.” They sucked in a breath. “Should’ve been a computer engineer.”

Hank nodded along, observing how many notes he was not taking. “And you met Juno in school, yeah?”

“Yeah, she was my professor for third-year electro- and magnetostatics.”

“And Matteo?”

They sniffled, but instead of beginning to cry again like Hank feared, they smiled. “I got wasted one night out with Juno and her friends, but when she brought me home, I was a dingus and gave her Matt’s apartment number instead.”

He wrinkled his brow and scrolled back through his notes. “You met that night?”

Radar finally looked up at him properly. “Yeah?”

“Juno said you’ve known him for years.”

“As a _neighbor_ , but I never gave him more than a ‘howdy’ until I woke up hungover on his couch. Matt was bro enough to bend the truth a li’l bit so I didn’t look like as much of an idiot, passing the hell out in a stranger’s apartment.”

Hank smirked. “So what did you three crazy kids do last night?”

Radar cocked their head. “Aren’t you like, only a little older than me?”

“The question, Robles. Some kind of party?”

“Yeah, my friend’s birthday. It was at a club, at uhhh….” They thumped their forehead with a fist a couple time before saying, “Blueshift! It was Blueshift downtown. I remember rolling up—the three of us—going to the bar, already a little high, and then nada. Zip.”

“What makes you so sure it was a suicide?”

“I—” They stopped. A memory played out in their head, and like blowing out a candle, they lost the vigor they had gained throughout the conversation, bowing their head to hide behind curls. “Because…I know we wouldn’t do that to him, and the lock and stuff wasn’t broken, and…and it was more likely he would do it to himself. I thought he was doing better since we met him, but….”

Hank finished up his notes. It was nothing immediately useful, but this line of questioning had pretty much run its course. He dug out his wallet and spent too long searching for Gavin’s business cards. Good thing Radar wasn’t looking at him anymore. He got up and laid one on their desk. “If you remember anything or find any clues, like texts or photos.”

They muttered, “Gosh, where _is_ my phone….”

“Thank you for your time.” As they laid down next to the card, Hank saw himself out. Before closing the door, he added, “Sorry for your loss.”

Juno sat on the couch, hugging her knees to her chest. Her eyes were closed, and her LED had the sluggish pulse of standby mode. He left another card on the coffee table just in case the other got lost. Radar’s room had looked rather hopeless.

Downstairs, some of the police had left. Connor—no, Gavin—leaned against a wall, one arm across his chest propping up the other as he looked at a plastic evidence bag. It appeared empty at first until Hank caught brief pinpoints of light bouncing off its minuscule contents. “Looks like you already found more than I did,” he commented.

“Neither of the suspects confessed to your face, huh? Shame.” God, right, Connor’s voice, but Gavin’s bitchy sarcasm. He shook the bag. “Found crystals of something on the victim’s clothes. Visual scans say something’s weird about it. Looks like a type of ice, but since the android upstairs is all fucked up, I’m not gonna lick it to find out.”

“Fair. Classic lab work it is.” Hank took the bag and held it up to the floodlight. Tiny purple shards glittered through the plastic. He was surprised he could see them clearly at all—oh, fan-fuckin’-tastic, Gavin had better vision than him. Whoop-de-doo. “Forensics?”

Gavin crossed his arms and propped a foot on the wall. “He shut down around 2 AM. Casing fractures on the chest, neck, side and back of the head, inside of the elbows, and on the right hand. Joint cracks are thinner and more brittle, indicating they are due to old age, and the others aren’t as bad as they should be after a fight for your life. Left audio processor is disconnected, thirium pump obviously removed, memory core missing—stuff we knew.”

“Plus the drugs.”

“And the mystery drug. And another thing: There were traces of thirium on the eyelids.”

Hank looked over to the body on the floor. Any thirium that bled from the cracks had long evaporated; he couldn’t see if the blue pooled in his chest was still there. “Just on his eyes?” he asked.

“Just the eyes.”

“Hm.” His hand meant to scratch his beard out of habit, but what he got instead was disappointing. “Maybe one of our suspects closed their friend’s eyes when they found him.”

“Or we’ve got a classy murderer on our hands.”

Hank jostled the evidence bag. The scar across his finger was visible through the plastic. “Were you able to run a reconstruction?”

“A what now?”

“It’s, ah….” He waved a hand. “I dunno, something Connor does to simulate what happened.”

Gavin narrowed his eyes. The LED flickered to yellow briefly, and he scoffed. “Latest nexus reformat required. Even with his fuckin’ body, I’m too stupid to do shit?”

“Your words, not mine. Right!” He clapped, cutting off Gavin’s indignant noise and the argument that would’ve ensued, and held up the bag between them. “Let’s send this over to the lab, and while they work on that, we’ll go check out the club they went to. Blueshift Nightclub.”

He was sure Gavin was going to be snarky. Any other day, he would make some snide remark or be a sarcastic asshole before begrudgingly agreeing. Today, he leveled a look at Hank, wrinkled his nose, and bit back a comment. He held up a hand. Then he pressed his fist into Hank’s chest and pushed him away as he stalked toward the door, grumbling, “God, I… _hate_ your face right now.”

“Hey, the feeling’s mutual. Every word out of your mouth adds another day of therapy.”


End file.
